Portraits of an Old Man
by Foxglove Chant
Summary: Who is the Very Old Man with Enormous Wings? Herein lie two possible answers. Warning for spiritual content.
1. The Old Man is an Angel

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Gabriel García Marquez. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**A/N: ** These monologues were written for an English assignment exploring how García Marquez used point of view to obscure information in A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings. I liked how they turned out, so I thought I would share them ) Feedback is always welcome; also, if anyone knows of any other fanfic based on works by García Marquez, I'd be really interested. Thanks!

1. The old man is an angel.

When I first arrived, I thought I had been sent to save the child. He was ill, but all it took was the prayer of an angel to bring him back to health. Later, I wondered if I was doing God's will by bringing prosperity to the family. When the child was well and the family was no longer poor, still I believed that God had a purpose for me.

God alone can know what I suffered at the hands of the townspeople. The indignity, the pain, the cruelty to which I was subjected - all will be judged. I am an angel of the Lord; I know the Law.

I tried to be of some help to the ignorant folk, despite their lack of respect. I prayed for health and strength, for prosperity, for flowers to brighten their mood. Still, I felt my efforts went unappreciated. Sometimes I feared that my prayers went unanswered, although that is impossible.

The boy became the only one to pay me any heed. I cannot say he was more respectful than the rest, only that he continued to visit me. I thought that he could be taught the narrow path of virtue. Certainly to save a child from growing up as ignorant as his parents would be a worthy cause for an angel. Eventually, however, he too stopped visiting. He never seemed to understand me anyway.

In his wake, I was left with silence, idleness and a growing revelation. I tried to occupy myself with helping the mother - idle hands are the work of the devil - but she didn't care for my aid. There was no moment of epiphany but by the time the winter rains had ceased, it was clear in my mind. I had no purpose. God had set no path for me to follow.

I left as soon as I was well enough. I had no wish to stay in that hellish village. Throwing myself into the air was the first thing I had ever done for myself.

I was no longer an angel.


	2. The Old Man is a Norwegian with Wings

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Gabriel García Marquez. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**A/N: ** Here's the second monologue, from an entirely different point of view. This one is my favourite - which is yours? Or do you have another idea you like better? Let me know! And thanks for reading )

2. The old man is a Norwegian with wings.

Those people were barbarians. I have sailed around the world, and everywhere an injured man is helped before he is questioned - beaten - poked, prodded like an animal. They acted as if I were not a person at all.

When their son began to walk, he often came to see me. He looked at me with curiosity but, unlike his elders, he did not judge what he saw. 

I began to understand their language but I never spoke it. Instead, I taught the boy a few words of my language - ocean, stars, alone. I would sing sea chanteys if his mother was out of earshot and he brought me an extra blanket when the wind turned cold. In that empty village of beggars and fools, it was only the children I cared to see. They, at least, were straightforward in their scorn or awe.

I became less fond of the boy when he made me ill. For nights I dreamed of my homeland, restless and afraid. In fevered visions I saw its barren mountains and rocky shores, heard my father's voice and felt the confines of the cave where I used to hide myself and my damned wings.

For an instant, when I awoke, I remembered the tune my mother used to sing.

I recovered quickly, more quickly than I allowed anyone to suspect. By that time, the child was being sent away each day and I was ready to leave. The feathers were slow growing back, but I have always been patient. There was a moment as I struggled into the sky when I believed I would again fall to the earth. I have forgotten my age, I thought. I have always hated my wings, and now they cannot bear my weight. How will I fly?

I am flying now. I do not believe, as I used to, that it is my hollow bones or my perfectly angled feathers keeping me aloft. 

I am flying on a prayer.


End file.
